The Interstellar Medium
by analine
Summary: It's the apocalypse, and Sam just wants to fix the things that are broken, whatever it takes. Sam/Dean, set mid-S5.


**Title:** The Interstellar Medium  
**Pairing:** Sam/Dean  
**Warnings/Spoilers**: non-graphic mentions of sex; set mid-S5  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Beta:** Sariagray  
**Word Count:** ~6,500

**Summary:** It's the apocalypse, and Sam just wants to fix the things that are broken, whatever it takes.

**Notes**: This is a mid-S5 fic, mostly set between _Abandon all Hope_ and _Sam, Interrupted_, with a coda to that episode at the end. Kind of a getting-back-together fic, I suppose. Mostly. ;)

* * *

Two days after the memorial service for Jo and Ellen, they take off from Sioux Falls for Salt Lake City - weather-related weirdness that could be an omen or nothing at all.

Dean barely says a word as they set out, just drives and drives and drives. The miles slip away behind them and stretch out in front of them and eventually Sam closes his eyes. Tries to give Dean some space, as much as that's possible sitting two feet away from him, but he doesn't sleep, can't, with his mind going like this.

It's bad. Sam knows it's bad, knows it's been bad for months and months, but also knows that the first couple of days after Carthage had been worse.

Sam keeps telling himself that it's normal - grief, guilt - but he knows it's probably more than that.

Dean doesn't deal with this stuff well, or at all, really - which is kind of ironic, given the line of work and how many people they've already lost, and will probably continue to lose before this is all over.

Sam can see it in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders. This has really gotten under his brother's skin.

Sam used to know what to do. Used to be able to distract Dean, at least, make him laugh, even if it was at Sam's expense, but lately, he's lost. Everything is a dead end, and Dean is closed off, airtight, a steel trap.

He tells himself it's not that Dean doesn't trust him, it's that Dean doesn't trust anyone, but he can see how Dean looks at him sometimes, like he has no idea what to make of this person next to him, or worse, like he's already written him off, like he's not even _trying_ anymore.

After a while Sam lets himself drift off into a kind of a trance, feeling the steady rhythm of the tires underneath them on the road, imagining the landscape sliding past outside the window.

He figures they're about ten hours in when Dean flips off the radio. Sam almost opens his eyes, but he doesn't, he just listens, instinct taking over.

He's five, or six, or seven years old again, eyes closed, and ears wide open in the dark of some motel room in the middle of the night. Wondering when Dad was coming home, listening to the soft sounds of Dean puttering around the room when he was trying to be quiet, or to the sound of Dean's voice, low, scared, from behind the bathroom door, on the phone with Bobby or Caleb or Pastor Jim. Sam had been listening for answers back then, but even after he got them, the questions never really went away. Some things never change.

Dean inhales sharply. Sam can hear him let out a shaky breath, can hear the almost imperceptible curses on his lips, can hear Dean's breathing speed up. There's panic, and maybe a little desperation in the air and it enters into Sam's bloodstream slow and steady, like dust particles, making his heart speed up too. He feels the car slide over to the shoulder.

Sam counts to a hundred, painfully slow - _one-one-thousand, two-one thousand_ - and then opens his eyes. Dean is staring forward at the road, into the darkness past where the headlights reach.

Sam stretches and then carefully meets Dean's eyes.

"Want me to take a turn?"

Dean doesn't argue, just nods, a small shake of his head, and gets out of the car as Sam slides over into the driver's seat.

It feels good. He takes a strange sort of comfort in the fact that after all this, after the demon blood and Ruby and all of it, Dean still trusts Sam to take his turn behind the wheel.

Dean actually sleeps the rest of the drive, turned away from Sam, his jacket over his face like he's shielding himself from the darkness. By the time they get to Salt Lake City the next morning, it's like the night and the drive never happened.

* * *

The weather thing turns out to be nothing, global warming at best, and Sam's not sure if he's relieved or disappointed.

Things felt almost okay when they were deep into their investigation, poring over data on weather patterns and lore about crop yields suddenly falling to zero, when they had something to focus on other than how fucked up everything had turned out to be. Now they'll have to start all over again.

There will be other jobs though, other things to hunt, or not, depending - that much he can count on. He just hopes after enough time spent plugging along, doing what they're good at, they'll be able to get through this.

* * *

Another week passes and Dean still isn't himself. He's not talking, not sleeping, and Sam is starting to think he could really use some help here, until it occurs to him that there's really no one to call anymore. Bobby isn't exactly in great shape these days, and besides, Jo and Ellen died on their watch. He's sure Bobby blames them (_him_, it was Sam who started this, after all). Not that he'd ever say it, but it's there all the same.

And well, the rest of their friends are dead.

There's a hollow place inside of him where he files that thought away to, because he needs to focus on what's happening in front of him right now.

And what's happening right now is that Dean is slipping away. Sam spends close to 24 hours a day connected at the hip with his brother, and he still has no idea what Dean is thinking, how he feels about anything. He'd ask, but, well, that's just not how they operate these days.

Sam knows that part of him is letting this happen. Because he's embarrassed, because he's ashamed of what he's turned into, what he's always been. Because he knows that Dean is disappointed in him. That's no excuse though. Not now. Not anymore, when the stakes are this high, and the world is ending.

When Sam thinks about it like that, it's almost funny how he can't figure out this one thing, this one person. Especially when that person is _Dean_.

* * *

The Pony Canyon motel in Austin, Nevada has over thirty free cable stations and Sam watches a solid nine hours of TV – a _Die Hard_ marathon on one of the movie channels, plus some home shopping network crap - before Dean finally shows up from wherever it is that he went off to after they'd finished their latest job. It was just a salt-and-burn, no complications, which hardly necessitates a night of hard drinking for Dean, but what does Sam know. These are strange times.

Dean always comes back, eventually, but lately, Sam finds himself missing him in a visceral, verging on irrational way, filled with longing and _need_. It's something he hasn't felt since Hell, and he's not sure if this means he's finally cracking, or if they really are in a worse place than usual.

He might not know what to do to make things right, but he tries to read the mood, staying as close as Dean will let him, even if it means hitting the bars when he'd rather be sleeping, or letting Dean go off on his own when it's clear he needs to blow off some steam and Sam's not invited, like tonight. Well, this morning, now, depending on your perspective.

It's just past five am, and Dean gives Sam a surprised, vaguely hostile look, presumably for being awake, as he shrugs out of his jacket and stalks off into the bathroom.

Sam brushes it off, and by the time Dean is finished with his shower, the TV is off, the lights are out, and Sam's face is buried deep into his pillow.

After all, his feelings aren't exactly the most important thing right now.

The important thing, Sam thinks, is what's right in front of his face - not the past, or the future, or Dean taking his mood out on him. What's important is keeping this together, the status quo, sliding into that passenger seat, getting back on the road and staying there until they figure this out.

* * *

Sam really doesn't see the point of these epic nights out, but ever since Carthage it's like Dean's allergic to motel rooms – there's barely time to roll up and drop of their stuff before Dean is halfway out the door again.

On the upside, there's less time for awkward silences in the room. Mostly, Sam's just happy he isn't stuck there again tonight, giving Dean his space like he has been all week.

They've been out for hours and hours, and Dean is visibly drunk, which isn't something Sam gets to see all that often. He'd be able to appreciate it a little more if he wasn't directing all of his attention inward, towards not puking on his shoes, or Dean's shoes, as they stumble back to the room.

He must have passed out for a while, because it's almost light out when he wakes up to the sound of Dean's voice. It feels like Dean never sleeps anymore, so Sam isn't really surprised to find him awake, but his voice… Sam's not sure he's ever heard Dean's voice sound like this before, so open and raw and ugly.

"Everything is _wrong_," Dean is saying. "And I don't know how to fix it. People keep dying, Bobby, and for what? Ellen and Jo. What happened to you. I used to think it meant something, but anymore… It feels like a waste."

There's a clock by the table next to Sam's bed, and it ticks away the seconds, as Sam listens to Dean's voice break off, listens to him say Bobby once, a warning, before he goes quiet for a few seconds.

"No," Dean says suddenly. "No, Sammy is… He's _different_ now, and I'm different too, and… I don't know if it can ever be the way it was again."

There's a long pause.

"Yeah, I know," Dean says, his voice softening. "But I'm scared. I don't know what I'll do if I have to let him go again."

Sam screws his eyes shut tight; it's like the bottom has dropped out of the room.

Just like that, this thing between them is right there - this thing that makes everything more complicated, because it's not just Dean, not just his big brother he's talking about here, it's something more than that. And that something is messy and it's complicated and it's front and center in Dean's voice, forcing Sam to remember exactly everything that's at stake here.

He doesn't have words for it, has never had words, doesn't need them - but family, maybe, or love. They come close, though it's more than both those things, some hopeless combination of the two that has the effect of making this thing between them feel impossible and inevitable and completely exhilarating, all at the same time. It's also absolutely everything Sam's ever wanted. Everything he's ever felt, he's felt it here first; he's felt it _more_, with Dean.

Right now what he feels is a deep and profound emptiness though, where something solid used to be, where what they were to each other before all of this used to be, this thing that he can't seem to get back no matter how hard he tries. It feels a bit like a missing limb, this loss. Like Hell all over again.

Because no matter what he does, Dean doesn't look at him the same way anymore, not since Ruby. Dean is disappointed, because Sam has failed, again and again and again. And nothing he can do right now can change that.

Sam screws his ears shut tight, another trick he mastered in the dark, in motel rooms all across the country at an early age. He's tired of listening to Dean's voice, doesn't want to hear what else he has to say.

And so Sam lets the emptiness fill his mind, blackening everything, until there's nothing but blank, blank, darkness, until he can't hear his brother's voice or anything else anymore.

* * *

The emptiness fades a little in the bright light of the next morning, and the morning after that, and the morning after that - it's a good thing, too, because honestly, Dean's mood has been dark enough for the both of them lately.

Their last couple of jobs have been pretty light, but Sam is exhausted anyway, and when Dean opts for a night in, he's more than happy to take him up on it. He could use an opportunity to get at least some of the stuff he's been dragging around for the past few days off of his chest, if nothing else.

They're still in Nevada, though Sam would be hard-pressed to point out their exact location on a map. The TV is on, chattering brightly over the white noise of the apocalypse and impending doom in his head. Sam figures now is as good a time as any to open his mouth, and try this whole talking-about-what's-wrong thing again. It doesn't usually work, but at least he can say he tried.

The motel is right off the highway, and every few minutes the windows rattle as another eighteen-wheeler rolls past, rumbling off into the night.

"I heard you the other night," he says lightly, knowing Dean's going to be pissed, figuring there's no real need to sugarcoat it. "Talking to Bobby."

Dean meets Sam's eyes with a cold glare.

"Well, what do you want me to say? Congratulations."

"Dean-"

"I was _drunk_, come on."

"I know, so was I, but…"

"No, Sam, I'm not having this conversation. I've already apologized to Bobby twice for saying that shit, okay? Please. Give me a break here."

And Dean's eyes are begging him and so, fine, Sam thinks, no talking, but honestly, he has to do _something_. Lately it's like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop – something has to change. And Sam can really only think of one way to do that, now that talking is off the table.

Dean is lying there next to him, head propped up against the pillows—there's another bed, but the TV is in front of this one, so they're sharing. Experimentally, Sam moves his leg over to nudge Dean's, and then keeps it there, a tiny point of contact between them.

This has always worked a bit like muscle memory for him, this thing with Dean, and sure enough, the warmth of Dean's leg, the contact there feels electric. It draws him in, sets his heart pounding, and his mind running off a mile a minute.

What they used to have, Sam thinks, it used to be _good_. It used to get them through times like this. And it might not fix all the things that are broken between them, but it might still be good for something. He has to believe that, at least. All that stuff about him not being the same, and Dean not being the same… Those are just details, Sam thinks. They can get past details.

Dean's face is fixed on the TV – they're watching a rerun of some stupid cop show they've seen more than once, and it's on a commercial now anyway. Dean hasn't moved his leg away, and Sam just watches him breathe for a second, and tries not to lose his nerve, tries to find whatever it is inside of him that wants this so desperately, tries to will that part of him to override the fear.

He wants so badly to make up for everything. This might be wrong way to do it – hell, part of him thinks maybe that ship has already sailed, but,_but_…

"Damn it," Sam says under his breath, paralyzed for a moment by how hard it is to make this leap, even though he's done this a hundred, a thousand times before.

His body is tense, poised to jump up and get himself as far from this room as he possibly can if it means not having to listen to Dean tell him _no_, or push him away, but to his surprise, Dean moves his hand towards him. He rests it lightly on Sam's arm, cool and calm. He's not applying that much pressure, not enough to actually stop Sam from getting up, if that's what he means to do, but it's there, all the same. Dean's fingers lightly curling around his forearm, the pad of Dean's thumb just below the rolled up sleeve of his shirt, right there against his skin.

It's the most intimate physical contact he's had with his brother in months, and it sets Sam's heart pounding harder, sets his skin tingling, makes him feel reckless and bold and a little crazy, and suddenly Sam realizes how close to the edge he's been teetering.

And then he just leans over and presses his lips to Dean's, telling himself it's the end of the world, why not go for broke, but mostly he's just desperate for this when it's so close, always has been. And when he feels Dean's lips relax under his, when he feels Dean's arms reach up and around his back, tugging him closer, Sam figures he made the right choice, for once.

Dean's tongue is thorough and deliberate inside his mouth, like maybe he actually wants this too, like maybe Sam hasn't been the only one thinking about this after all. Sam lets Dean reacquaint himself with all the corners and soft, sensitive spots inside his mouth while his heart pounds, adrenaline flooding through his veins. No, it's not the same as before, he thinks, this is something new. He wonders if Dean can feel it too.

Then he looks down, and Dean is smiling up at him like Sam hasn't seen him smile in forever, and in that moment, Sam decides that he'll bury his guilt, and his anger, and everything else, and instead, he'll turn his mind and his body to the earnest pursuit of making Dean feel amazing. Yes, Sam thinks, as he runs his hand up under Dean's shirt, skin against skin, feeling Dean's nipples go hard and tight under his touch - this is something he's good at.

He nibbles at the edge of Dean's lower lip, at his chin, his jaw. He feels Dean shudder when he reaches his collarbone and lingers there, bringing the warm skin into his mouth and sucking hard enough to leave a bruise.

He doesn't stop until he's convinced he's exceeded Dean's every expectation.

* * *

Things are a little better after that, but he can't hold onto it - there's still darkness in Dean's eyes when he looks at him sometimes, and it makes Sam uncertain in a way he hasn't been in years, about everything.

He's not sure if it has to do with Dean not trusting him, or if it's something more, something deeper. He's not sure he trusts himself, sometimes. His anger still flares up inside of him, hot and blinding, and he knows he's not always able to control it, can feel it getting the best of him. He knows that Dean can see it, too.

He misses how it used to be, before things had gotten so complicated, back when this thing between them was just them being messed up, when it was just them being Winchesters, risking everything for each other, taking it all too far. Back when they were just fighting demons, before the stakes got so high.

Back when he was at least reasonably certain he knew what Dean was thinking. He's scared of how much he can't figure out about what's going on in Dean's head these days. How suddenly unpredictable he is; how he'll close himself off for hours or days on end. Sam isn't used to it, doesn't know what to make of it.

And it makes this thing between them feel weird, and awkward, and wrong, sometimes. It's enough to drive anyone crazy, and Sam isn't sure he started out 100% solid.

It's hard not to wonder where exactly that leaves him.

* * *

It's been three weeks now since Carthage, and they're on a job somewhere outside of Dallas, deep in the suburbs. Sam has no idea what day of the week, of the month it is. The days have taken to blending together for a while now.

He does know that Dean has been practically feeling him up at the bar all night, leaning over his shoulder to talk to the bartender, his breath sour and moist against Sam's ear, his hands all over him in plain sight until finally Sam just drags them both out of there before they end up doing something they'll likely regret in front of a room full of bar patrons.

It feels strange – they're usually pretty discreet, but tonight Dean presses his back against the passenger door of the Impala out in the parking lot before Sam even sees it coming. He's hungry and aggressive; as if the small crowd huddled outside the bar isn't standing less than fifteen feet away from them. For a second, Sam thinks he's going to drop to his knees right there in the gravel, but the moment passes, and by the time they get back to the room, Dean has turned sullen and unreachable. Again. That part, at least, is a familiar scene from the past couple of weeks.

Sam doesn't know what to do anymore. Part of him is terrified that Dean is going to walk out one day - just get up and leave him in the middle of nowhere without a word. It could be tonight, for all he knows. He stares at Dean's face, at his profile next to him on the ratty old motel couch.

"Look," he says, trying to plead with his brother without making it sound like he's begging. "I know it's not perfect between us, but can't we just start from here, build on this? I'm not saying let go of everything that's happened, I know I've made mistakes, but maybe we can just… I don't know…"

Sam is desperate, and embarrassed that he's desperate, and ashamed that he's embarrassed, but at the same time he knows he'd do it all over again given the slight chance he can fix things and get through to Dean. This, really, is who he _is_. This thing with Dean… This is everything. But he's a mess right now. A little drunk, too, maybe, but that had been Dean's fault.

Sam just wants to kiss him. He'd tried. A couple of times, actually, and he'd been pushed away. It still hurts, his stomach twists uncomfortably as he stares into Dean's face now, but he presses on anyway.

"Please, Dean. Just let me…" Sam says, and this time when he leans in, Dean doesn't push him away.  
This time he lets Sam part his lips carefully. He closes his eyes, and makes a tiny noise in his throat before he pulls back, and gives Sam a long look.

Sam has no idea what it means. Has no idea if Dean is about to punch him in the face, or throw him onto the bed and fuck him into tomorrow. It's ridiculous that he can't tell the difference. He wonders if he's losing his mind.

Finally, after an eternity passes, because he has to say something, Sam says, "Can you please stop looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Forget it," Sam says, and Dean lowers his eyes at him. "Look, this is..." Sam tries again. "This is okay, right? I mean, it's not all bad," he offers, remembering the feel of Dean's lips against his, the way their bodies fit together, the way they've always slotted into place like they belong there. Sam remembers how easy this used to be. It feels like a lifetime ago. "Maybe we should just take it at face value, for once?"

Dean stares at him, and says, evenly, "You know, sometimes I wish Cas hadn't shown up for me down there."

"Jesus, Dean." Sam blinks, hot tears blossoming behind his eyes, but he pushes them back. "Don't- Don't say that to me."

"And then other times, I look at you and I'm just..."

"What?"

"I'm grateful."

"Grateful?"

"I thought I'd never see you again, Sammy. You were all I thought about down there, for... for a long time. Not just down there, anywhere. Everywhere."

"Am I supposed to be flattered? Then why—"

The words die in his throat, because of course Sam knows the answer to that, knows deep down why this isn't working, why they're not okay. He stares at Dean, for a moment, hoping he won't answer, willing him not to.

"It's the apocalypse, Sam," is what Dean says, but Sam closes his eyes, hears the words Dean is thinking anyway.

Sam who chose a demon over his own brother, Sam who fell for the biggest joke in the universe, whose good intentions mean nothing at all, less than nothing. Dean might as well have said it all – Sam can see it in his eyes. He looks away.

"And so, what?" Sam asks, feeling reckless, fueled by the drinks Dean kept buying him at the bar all night, fueled by the very blood in his veins that's always wanted this, no matter how much it hurts. "Am I supposed to just wait and see which version of you pans out in the end? The version who wishes you were still carving up souls in Hell, who wants to give up on the world, on _yourself_, or the version that finally decides you can bear to be with me, now that you know I'm a monster. Those are the choices? Fuck that, Dean. You're not grateful," Sam hears his voice say, rough and pathetic. "You can't stand the sight of me."

Dean's face darkens at that.

"That's not true," he says, and then he takes Sam's face in his hands, and leans in close, hot breath on Sam's nose, stubble grazing the skin above his lip, as he presses his lips to Sam's. After a moment he stops, and presses their foreheads together.

"I'm sorry," Dean says, and then again against his lips. "I'm sorry, Sammy."

And then everything goes a little hazy for a while.

This rhythm they have, it can drown out anything, anything at all, even this.

* * *

Six days later, somewhere outside of Mineola, Texas, they run out of gas. To be fair, before they run out of gas they escape from Glenwood Springs Psychiatric Hospital, with a questionable amount of emotional scarring, but with their brains mostly intact.

It's only three days, but it feels like weeks - like months, maybe - that they spend inside that place. Sam's not sure they've ever had a stupider idea than willingly admitting themselves into a psych ward. On top of everything else, it's arguably the last thing they needed right now.

The time they spend apart while they're in there seems to heal something between them, though. He's not sure how, or why, but when he looks at Dean now, some of the tension is gone.

Then again, maybe it's just that Sam's heart had nearly soared out of his chest seeing Dean burst through the door into that padded room. He's had plenty of occasions to be really happy to see Dean, but this one went down in the top five, for sure.

Being away from Dean had allowed him to do some serious thinking too. Thinking that he couldn't do while he was waiting for Dean to come back to some crappy motel room, no matter how many hours he had.

He spends a long time thinking about his anger, too, about who he's actually angry at.

He wonders if he'll be able to use it to his advantage in the fight he knows is coming. He hopes he can. Hopes that sticking with Dean, that Dean sticking with _him_ will be enough.

He knows Dean's right, too– that the only way to keep going is to put everything aside, but… He also hopes that while he and Dean are busy burying their problems deep inside of them, they don't end up burying everything else, too.

Sam drifts asleep with his face pressed against the window of the Impala, as Dean takes them far, far away from Glenwood Springs, from everything that's bad. That's what Dean has always done, and Sam is more than happy to trust him to do it again.

He sleeps soundly, dreamlessly, until he jerks awake to a vast darkness in front of them, and Dean staring over at him from the driver's seat looking guilty as hell, which is never a good sign.

"I fucked up, Sammy."

"What? What's wrong?" Sam blinks awake, brain coming online, imagining the worst, though given what they've been dealing with lately, there's not much that's left to the imagination. He blinks again.

"Dean?"

Dean is leaning forward, forehead on the steering wheel.

"I think we're out of gas. And uh, I don't know where we are."

"What?" Sam does a bit of a double-take at that. He honestly isn't sure he's heard him properly.

"I just... I kept driving south," Dean continues. "I don't know..."

Outside the car, it's dark, but the moon is out, bright and big. The hollow glow spills down around the car like a canopy.

"Dean," Sam says, shifting towards the driver's seat to face his brother. "It's fine. We'll figure something out."

Dean is quiet for a long moment, and then he nods, and leans back against the seat. He lets out a long breath. Without the idling of the engine, this far from anything, it's really, really quiet. Sam hasn't experienced this kind of deep quiet for months, maybe longer.

"That place really messed me up, Sammy," Dean says eventually, staring down at his lap.

He's still wearing his hospital gown, Sam realizes. Sam had changed hours ago, as soon as he could – the t-shirt he'd dug out from under the driver's seat had a large streak of grease across the chest, and most definitely belonged to Dean.

"I know," Sam says. "Me too."

He squints out the window. Dean had managed to steer them down a side road, and they're well off to the shoulder.

"Come on," Sam says, and swings the car door open into the darkness and the moonlight. "You need to put real clothes on if we're hiking out for gas."

Dean doesn't answer, and so Sam moves around to the trunk, zips open Dean's duffel, and pulls out the first set of mostly clean clothes he comes across.

Back in the car, he tosses them to Dean, who looks up at him.

"I really don't like being crazy," Dean says, frowning.

"You're not crazy."

"I don't know, Sammy," Dean says. He gets up and promptly drops his pants, standing in the open door, moonlight shining down on his ass like a beacon, and Sam smiles a little. "I feel a little crazy."

Dean lets the hospital gown and pants stay there in the dirt at his feet, as he pulls the clean shirt over his head. He rummages around in the back seat for a second, finds his jacket and puts that on, too. He doesn't get back into the car, just stands there for a few seconds, arms crossed in front of him, leaning against the frame of the door, staring out at the field across the road.

The moon is almost full, and the stars are out in full force – a brilliant, vast swirl of light up above them. Suddenly going for gas doesn't seem so urgent anymore.

"I think we've got a couple of beers in the cooler," Sam offers, as he steps out of the car. It's not really a peace offering, but it feels like one, somehow, as Sam searches Dean's face for recognition, for agreement. "The stars are pretty amazing out here," he says, tilting his head up.

Dean gives him a strange look, but follows Sam's eyes, until they're both staring up into the sky. They must be miles from the nearest city. The night is clear, too, a stargazer's dream.

"We still have those blankets, right?" Dean says, and predictably, Sam's heart swells in his chest.

A few minutes later, he spreads the blankets out over the hood, and the texture of worn cotton under his fingers takes him right back – five, ten, fifteen years – spreading these same blankets over the hood of the Impala for impromptu picnic lunches, or dragging them into motel rooms to make forts between the beds.

They both grab lukewarm cans of beer out of the murky water at the bottom of the cooler, and Dean meets his eyes as he climbs up onto the hood. It's a little awkward, but they make it work, shifting around until they're both lying at a comfortable angle.

There are crickets out here, and other welcome, outdoor sounds that Sam feels like he hasn't heard in forever. He listens for a moment, sipping his beer. The wind moves over the grasses in the field across the road, a light swoosh of sound. A cloud darkens the moon for a moment.

"This has always been the best way to watch the stars," Sam says.

Dean actually laughs a little. "Yeah, Dad would've killed me if he'd known we used to come up here like this."

"It's nice," Sam says, staring up at the sky, at the gulf of darkness just past Orion's belt.

The interstellar medium - the space between the stars. Massive clouds of gas and dust just hanging out up there, invisible to the naked eye. Sam had taken an astronomy class once; one of the many high schools they'd passed through had a planetarium. He didn't remember much about that particular class, but he'd always liked that the darkness and the emptiness between all that light had a name. And a pretty awesome name, at that.

Dean takes a long pull on his beer, sits up a little straighter. "Sure, it's nice. Except for the whole world-ending part, right?"

Sam smiles a little. "It's supposed to put things into perspective, Dean. Our place in the universe and all that?"

"Well, our place in the universe _sucks_, in case you haven't noticed."

"I've noticed," Sam says, and stares up at the sky again.

It's quiet for a long moment – Sam almost doesn't want to break it, but some things need to be said, to be heard.

"You know, you've always been the one who keeps me going. When it gets really bad. You've always been stronger than me. You still are."

Dean shakes his head. "Sam, I'm the _opposite_ of strong."

"Not to me," Sam says. He glances over at Dean, watches his brother finish off his beer. He tosses the empty can back into the cooler on the ground. When Dean meets his eyes, he looks sad, but honest, more honest than Sam's seen him look in a long time.

"Dad had to _die_ to save me, and if Cas hadn't shown up, I don't even think I would have looked back from down there. Bobby gave his legs because of me, and Jo and Ellen... " Dean shakes his head.

"I'm not strong."

"You're wrong."

"I'm not, Sam. We'd have one hell of a better chance at ending this if I was, but..."

"How can you say that? I've looked up to you my whole life. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you. I wouldn't be anywhere." Sam swallows, hard. "Dean, I need you. I need you not to give up."

Dean shakes his head.

"You know it's true," Sam says, and Dean doesn't say a word, doesn't meet his eyes. "I want you to admit it. You know this isn't going to work unless we both-"

"Sam-"

"No," Sam says. "Don't argue with me, with what I _know_. You can't do that."

"I'm not arguing, Sammy," Dean says, and he leans in to Sam's mouth and kisses him, so hard and so deep that Sam quickly finds himself groaning, deep in his throat, and whatever else he'd been thinking of saying is lost.

They kiss for a long time, breathless and messy, Sam scrabbling with the zipper to Dean's jeans after a while, and Dean shoving his hand down into Sam's boxers awkwardly. Somehow despite the weird angles of the car's hood, and the fact that the blankets keep slipping here and there, they manage to finish this thing, and get each other off, sloppy and undignified. But it's nice – comfortable in a way they haven't been with each other in months. After, Dean pulls one of the blankets up and over them, and the gesture feels warm and strangely tender.

When they've managed to clean up as best they can, Sam leans back against the window, enjoying the warmth from Dean's body that he can feel running all the way up and down his left side, shoulder to ankle.

"So, out of gas," Sam says, more a statement than a question.

Dean nods.

"Cell phone service?"

"Not a damn thing."

"Shit."

"Yeah, well, it is the apocalypse. What did we expect, right?"

"We'll be okay," Sam says, and he knows it sounds like he's trying to convince himself.

Dean's face is blank, hard. Sam finds his hand, threads their fingers together loosely, not caring if Dean pulls away. He's surprised when he doesn't, when Dean's palm spreads wide and squeezes tight against his skin before he lets go.

"You don't really believe that," Dean says, a smile on his lips that doesn't even come close to making it to his eyes.

"No," Sam says. "But I want to."

"Yeah," Dean says, his voice even. "Yeah, I know you do."

A star flickers out above them, light into darkness, adding to the blanket of emptiness above them. Sam doesn't notice though. He's closed his eyes. He's focusing on the warmth of Dean's body next to him - if he listens close enough, he thinks he can hear Dean's heart.

They'll go for gas in the morning. Morning is practically here already, he realizes – the light on the base of the horizon turning from black to grey, the moon falling in the sky. It's been a while since they've watched the sunrise together.

"I'm going to fix this," Sam says, feeling suddenly as sure of this as he's ever been of anything in his entire life. "All of it. Whatever it takes."

"I know," Dean says. "We both are."

And when Sam glances over at him again, Dean's eyes are closed. Sam closes his eyes again, too, imagines the stars up above them in his mind's eye, imagines the world, pulled back from the brink, and himself in the middle of it, saving it all, redeeming himself.

Then he opens his eyes, and waits for the sun.

**end**


End file.
